


Victory is Forever

by clarnicamhalai



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Friends to Lovers, Making up for lost time, Quidditch World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-06
Updated: 2020-02-06
Packaged: 2021-02-26 11:06:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22584457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clarnicamhalai/pseuds/clarnicamhalai
Summary: Hermione agrees to take on two billets for the duration of the 2004 Quidditch World Cup and rekindles a missed summer romance.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Viktor Krum
Comments: 8
Kudos: 104





	Victory is Forever

**Author's Note:**

> This would have been started maybe ten years ago, but I'm just trawling through the ficarage now and trying to finish the ones I still like after all this time. Zero pacing or finesse, and probably rushed, but enjoy! The title quote is attributed to many people and has multiple variants, but I can't find where it was originally from...

_pain is temporary but  
victory is forever_   
  


_“The English team have as much chance as any of the other European heavyweights,” _Ludo Bagman announced on the wireless. “_Bulgaria continue to be strong contenders, as do Germany – and while the Irish have suffered several injury losses in the lead up to the World Cup we’ve had some bittersweet news today from Chaser Siobhán Mullet: she is indeed pregnant. Unfortunately for Ireland that means she’s out for the tournament, but I’m sure we all wish her and her growing family well.”_

With the World Cup looming on the horizon, the British Isles had undergone what the Prophet had lately taken to calling ‘a vast and desperately needed structural reworking’ to cope with the predicted influx of tourists and supporters. A combination of billets and provisional hotels had been organised for the national teams and their various hangers-on, and Hermione, having been bullied by Harry and Ron into putting her hand up, had been allotted two players to house over the course of the competition.

Reluctant as she normally was to call in favours by dropping names and dredging up her involvement in the war, she hadn’t hesitated when she’d stopped by the Department of Magical Games and Sports and had made bloody well sure she wasn’t going to end up saddled with some eighteen year old with his mind on groupies and thoughts of celebrating into the wee hours.

Happily, as it turned out, of the two players she’d been allocated, one was already a friend.

Viktor Krum was still the highest ranked seeker in international quidditch and his position on the Bulgarian team had never once come into contention. He and Hermione had maintained an erratic correspondence over the years, writing infrequent but detailed letters that covered everything from team politics to ancient runes and muggle primary schools.

_“…We’ll be joined after the break by England Chaser Marcus Flint, and he’ll be answering Questions from the Cauldron,” _Bagman announced from the wireless, rushing to finish the sentence before a jingle advertising Ogfield’s Unimpeachable Floo Powder overrode him. Hermione turned the radio off.

She had readied her little cottage for her guests and was waiting impatiently in the kitchen for three o’clock to roll around, as the international portkeys were due shortly after the hour. She had planned to meet Viktor and his teammate, Pyotr Vulchanov, one of the Bulgarian team’s beaters, at the Ministry; they could then Floo back to her home with ease as the two men would be carrying their kit bags and all the necessary paraphernalia top-of-the-range broomsticks seemed to require.

As the clock ticked towards five minutes to three, Hermione spun on the spot and vanished.

The Ministry was bustling as when she reappeared at the Apparition point; witches and wizards were mustering at the far end of the atrium and it took Hermione a moment to realise that it was due to the alarming number of fans waving and shouting by the entrance behind her, the pulsing and writhing mass being held back by a handful of security staff. The players must have arrived early.

She darted towards the desks at the far end of the room, joining the queue of hosts. She looked around, trying to spot Viktor among the players and equipment bags. His trademark eyebrows and dour expression usually stood out. After a few minutes of searching, she glimpsed him; his neighbour saw her peering across the room and tapped his arm gently. Viktor tipped his head towards the other man, listening to his question before looking up directly at Hermione. He smiled and it changed his entire demeanour. Hermione grinned back and waved; she assumed the second man was Vulchanov, her other guest, as he rattled off a quirky little salute in return.

It took all of twenty minutes for the two players to be released into her care.

“Viktor!” she cried, hugging him tightly.

“It is good to see you, too,” he said in his gruff voice. He smiled and added, “Her-my-own.”

She was about to launch into the pronunciation spiel, as she had in fourth year, when she caught the glint in his eye and the grin pulling at his mouth. She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously but with good humour.

He laughed. “I know how to say your name now, Hermione – how could I not, vhen it is spoken so frequently, ‘Hermione – Heroine of Magical Britain’.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Hermione said, blushing.

“You vould not, maybe, but ve vould,” he replied frankly. He grinned. “Ah, it’s good to see you. Like time has not passed at all. Now, let me introduce to you: Pyotr Vulchanov.”

She reached out to shake Vulchanov’s hand, and in one smooth motion the Bulgarian beater clasped it and bowed. A succinct, charming gesture that took Hermione by surprise. “A pleasure.”

He was a burly fellow, thick across the chest and muscled like all the international beaters seemed to be. She always found it funny, given Fred and George had never needed to look like gorillas to be superb beaters, but Hermione was hardly a fan of Quidditch. Who knew, maybe it did give them an advantage?

“I’m very happy to be opening my home to you both,” she told the two men. “Best of luck in the tournament, of course. Now let’s get you settled in.”

The Ministry provided portkey was an old cap; they grabbed hold and then familiar sensation of having a hook inserted into her tummy and pulled violently sent the three of them tumbling through space and into Hermione’s neat little hallway.

She led them through to the lounge and bedrooms.

“Home sveet home,” said Viktor with a wink, dropping his bag on the bed.

+++

Billeting was quite easy in Hermione’s experience. The two Bulgarians left early for training and games and arrived home often victorious but mainly exhausted and utterly focused on their task – for now, it was topping their pool.

Hermione worked as she usually would – she was barely interested in Quidditch, unless Ginny was playing, and pool matches didn’t even register on her radar. She knew she would eventually be dragged to a final, encouraged to ‘make an appearance’ with Harry and Ron, both of whom were still nutty over Quidditch (Ron would be mad for the Cannons ‘til he died). For now, she enjoyed the easy camaraderie of the two men and their respectful care of her space and home. They were both older players, ‘veterans’ as the sports world labelled anyone who’d played for more than a few years; they avoided the wild drinking and girls (or boys) that were always ready to party with sports stars.

“Ve are old men now, saving ourselves for the grand finale,” Viktor told her one night as she read in the lounge, the two of them going over set plays and discussing their next opponent. She laughed.

“Don’t want to peak too early?”

“Exactly.”

As the tournament progressed, Viktor and Vulchanov stayed later and later at practices. Eventually, Vulchanov started returning home alone as Viktor worked on his seeking skills solo – critical games were upon them. It was knock out time in the competition.

Bulgaria made the final, as predicted.

Vulchanov arrived home alone once again, and as was his wont he disappeared into his room. Unusually, though, he emerged as Hermione settled in to do her evening reading in front of the fire.

“Do you mind I join you?” he asked, not wanting to intrude.

She waved him over to the couch, happy to share the space. “Don’t feel you need to hide in your room – I don’t mind company.”

Vulchanov sat quietly for a moment, worrying his lip and following the dance of the flames with his eyes.

“Hermione, can I ask a- a personal question?”

It was a gentle request from the big man. She folded her book and looked up at him, wondering what he could mean. “You can – but I reserve the right not to answer.”

“You like company, you have a big house with room to spare – but no partner, no lover. Is that your choice?”

She felt her pulse rise. “Wow, diving right in there.”

“I ask only because I am like a cat.” He flashed a grin, before adding knowingly, “And, of course, I wonder about my seeker. Who writes to his friend, pages and pages of parchment, and never dates anyone, though he is such an international star he could have any witch in the world.”

“That’s quite an assumption about Viktor. There could be myriad reasons he chooses not to date while he plays. Not least because some of those vapid groupies can’t string a sentence together, let alone master fifth year spells. He is quite bright, you know.”

“Oh, I know. We know, his teammates.”

“What’s brought this on, Pyotr?” Hermione asked, curiosity getting the better of her.

He thought about his words for a moment. “There is a symmetry and comfortableness to you both. You move to the same song.”

“Romantic,” Hermione observed, feeling embarrassed but never one to back down from a challenge. Viktor had been a flight of fancy at fourteen years old. Their sporadic letters always a reminder of what could have been, but seemingly proof to her that she had been relegated to friendship long ago. She’d often wondered what would have happened had she gone to Bulgaria to visit him that summer, had Voldemort and Harry not so desperately come first.

If she was inclined to mope about her circumstances, the primary recollection was always that Viktor and she had always had such potential. If she’d spent the summer with him, how would things have turned out? The sensible part of her brain always kicked in then: _terribly,_ it shouted,_ because Rita Skeeter would have made sure to ruin you both._

“I always thought of him as the one that got away, given how much of a mess Rita bloody beetle Skeeter made of everything,” she admitted to Pyotr, who was watching her thoughtfully.

“I think he never quite escaped you.”

Viktor arrived home just then, halting the conversation in its tracks. Hermione turned bright red and buried her nose in her book again as Viktor entered the room, a satisfied smile on his face and radiating contentment as he always did after a strong practice.

“Did you hear?” he asked Hermione and Pyotr, broom still in hand. “England von against France – by ten points. An England-Bulgaria final puts you in a unique position, Hermione.”

“I guess I’ll have to stay home,” she replied meekly.

“Never. Top box for you.” He laughed.

Unfortunately, he was only too right.

+++

Harry was invited to start the game – the same way celebrities did a coin toss at football matches or pitched the first ball in baseball across the pond. He released the various balls, signalling the start of the game and then joined Hermione and the rest of the Weasleys in the top box.

“How’s it been fraternising with the enemy this time?” Ron joked, harking back to their school days. His eyes were fixated on the players in front of them, but he was valiantly trying to include her.

“Very pleasant, actually. I’d give them a reference as lodgers any time.”

“Would you?” Ron tore his eyes away for a brief second to waggle his eyebrows at her.

“Ron!”

“I’m just saying your candle might as well be a torch at this point, Hermione. You and Krum and your weird library flirting is still unfinished.”

“That was years ago and we’re both over it. We are mature adults with friendship based on mutual respect and interests.”

“Like Quidditch?”

“Ye-no!” Hermione was getting flustered. Ron wasn’t supposed to be this perceptive; he’d caught her off guard. “Like ancient runes and the severe lack of resources for muggleborns and their families entering the world of magic.”

“He just happened to be already interested in that one, did he? Pureblood; went to Durmstrang, of all places? He’s into it because _you’re_ into it, Hermione.”

“When did you become the love guru mind-reader,” Hermione grumbled, feeling her face bloom into heat and redness for the second time that week.

“It’s our new line in our WonderWitch range,” George interjected from Ron’s other side. “Helps men interpret emotions and actions to better understand their partners.”

“Harry’ll take one of those,” Ginny chipped in. She was heavily pregnant with their first child and relished teasing her husband, a pastime she could still partake in at thirty-eight weeks. “He’s still working on that.”

“Anyway,” Ron said, calling Hermione’s attention back to himself after she and Ginny had sniggered a little at poor Harry’s expense, “The point is he’s still mad for you and you should give it a go.”

Amused, given Ron’s outlandish behaviour the last time romance between Krum and herself had been a regular topic of conversation, Hermione said, “So I’ve got your blessing, have I?”

“Yes,” he replied solemnly, patting her hand a second before launching out of his seat to swear at the ref as one of the Bulgarian chasers knocked an English player almost off their broom.

“He is a good bloke,” Harry added, amidst the furore of the spectators around them. “I can understand why you’ve kept in contact. I think it’s worth pursuing, Hermione. You deserve someone like him – reliable, intelligent, committed and focused. You’d make a good pair. And he knows how to manage fame, too.”

“Thanks, Harry.”

He smiled at her. Now that he and Ginny were settling down, he was ever-wishful for his friends to find the same kind of steady, comfortable and supportive relationships.

Intervention over, they left her alone from that point, settling in to watch the game intently. England were strong, but Krum was still the best seeker in the world. He proved it within an hour, leading Bulgaria to the victory that they had just barely missed in 1994. Krum held the snitch aloft, beaming and showing the world a different side of himself. One that heretofore, only a few of his nearest and dearest had witnessed. As he flew a victory lap, getting mobbed by his teammates, he accelerated away from them towards the top box and extended his hand with the golden ball towards them. As he caught Hermione’s eye, he pulled the snitch back to his chest and tapped it twice over his heart before flying back to the referee to deposit his prize.

The top box erupted into chatter and excitement, trying to catch a glimpse to whom Krum had been gesturing. Hermione sank in her seat as Ginny whirled on her.

“Hermione, I swear it, if you don’t snog that man tonight, I will personally come around to your house and mash your faces together,” Ginny threatened, grabbing her wrist. “What the hell was that, unless it was a declaration of something considerably more than friendship!”

“Believe me now?” Ron said smugly.

Hope flared in her chest, but of all Hermione’s tumultuous thoughts, the voice that shouted loudest was unkind: _it wasn’t for you, you’re just a friend. It could have been for anyone. If you’re wrong, you’ll lose him forever. He’ll stop writing back._

They had all been invited to the medal and trophy ceremony and Hermione felt a surge of butterflies as they entered the beautifully decorated reception tent a short while later. The Bulgarian team colours were plastered across the room; the player photos set hovering in frames along the canvas walls of the space. She couldn’t help but search for Viktor’s familiar scowl.

He’d been utterly bombarded by reporters asking about his gesture aloft, but he remained close-mouthed, only answering questions about the match itself.

Ludo Bagman was running the show, having somehow skipped away unscathed once again after the fiasco with the Leprechaun gold the last time Britain had hosted the World Cup. He looked as jovial and good-natured as ever, if a little older and with more crow’s feet. The witches still loved him, though, so he remained a Quidditch fixture.

He skipped up onto the stage and stepped up to the lectern, the wand at his throat magically enhancing the volume as he announced to his audience, “Ladies and gentlemen, witches and wizards of the world, please make welcome our valiant English fighters – second place today, but always first in our hearts!”

Applause rang out as the players and coaching staff of the English team walked in, looking sweaty, tired and tearful (at least, in a few cases). The waved at their supporters and took their seats at the English table.

“And now, our World Cup Champions, 2004: BULGARIA!”

Cheers erupted as the Bulgarians entered, many of the players looking as if they’d dipped into the alcohol and celebrations early. Viktor was in the thick of it, but Vulchanov saw Hermione looking and quirked a smile and a thumbs up in her direction.

She barely heard the announcements as they ran through the motions of the presentation. Her eyes were locked on Viktor. Bagman rattled on and on, citing all sorts of irrelevant information, pausing for applause, and then prattling on again (Ron seemed riveted, but Hermione couldn’t have cared less). Finally, they reached some sort of conclusion; it was time to present the medals and winner’s trophy, as well as the Most Valuable Player of the Tournament.

The English were still a bit gloomy as they were awarded their dues as Runners Up, but their captain gave a succinct and eloquent speech. “Too good for us today, but we’ll look forward to the next match,” they said, raising their smaller trophy in salute to the Bulgarians.

Bagman ran through the Bulgarian team with much drama and amping up of the audience. Hermione felt such pride for her friend as he accepted his medal, a smile on his face. The reporters were going to have a field day with his new, beaming persona and the mysterious on-pitch gestures, she knew that much!

Once all had received their individual accolades, the Most Valuable Player was due to be announced. Invariably, this player came from the winning team, though occasionally one of the Runner Ups could clinch it, according to the hushed aside from Ron, her very own walking, talking Quidditch World Cup encyclopaedia.

“This tournament has been festooned with skill beyond anything we’ve seen in past years; we have been lucky enough to witness generational talents. So it is, with great honour, that I invite you to congratulate our 2004 MVP: Viktor KRUM!” Bagman announced.

Kingsley shook Krum’s hand and placed the medal over his head.

“A few words?” Bagman asked, offering the wand.

Krum spoke clearly but quietly. “Ve do not reach heights, such as this, alone. Ve vork hard alongside our teammates, and ve surround ourselves vith those who vill encourage, support, and stand by us. Vhen they are close, it is easy to find them and say thank you. But vhen they are far, it shows the strength of bonds and that time and distance matter not at all if the dedication is there. So I take my moment now to say thank you to those who have helped me from afar, not just in my athletic pursuits, but in rounding out my life and understanding to include all aspects of our vorld – it makes me better in all ways, on and off the Quidditch pitch. Vithout you, I would not have the drive and dedication I have now. Your commitment is the inspiration. You lead the way and I humbly follow.”

His eyes sought and found Hermione in the crowd.

Her heart was in her mouth; he was talking about her – them! – about their bizarre, pen-pal relationship that she had assumed was as much of him she would ever be allowed. But he was clearly as affected by it as she had been; thinking that it was a slice of the world they thought they’d missed that forgotten summer – what could have been.

As Viktor left the stage to raucous applause, Hermione realised she was half out of her chair already, ready to follow him as he stepped away from centre stage and his teammates joined him, the captain grasping the enormous winner’s trophy and hoisting it high in the air to thunderous noise and celebration.

As the whole of the guests gave a standing ovation, she saw Viktor depart from the group and quickly followed, her heart thumping in her chest and butterflies dancing chaotically in her belly.

He was waiting for her just outside the reception tent, where the cool evening air brought scents of freshly cut grass on a gentle breeze. The clouds were tickled with pink as the sunset and she felt all at once calm.

“Hermione. I am sorry if I have surprised you, but I could not help myself. These past veeks I have tried to hide it, but my feelings are as they ever vere. I couldn’t miss another opportunity.” He quirked his mouth into a small wry smile.

Hermione was full of words and questions but found she couldn’t voice them. Instead, she launched herself at him, a full, crushing hug that she hoped conveyed all. “I thought we’d missed the boat, you and I. Do you mean it, Viktor?”

“To me, it could be 1994, except ve are both older – and perhaps viser? I vould like to call you more than a friend.”

“Our housemate dropped a suggestion the other day that perhaps I was missing something crucial in your letters. I never guessed you felt the same - I’ve always looked back and wished that we were able to spend that summer together; to see where it took us.”

“There are many summers to look forward to now, Hermione the Heroine. Thanks to you.”

She blushed at his praise, still clutching him gently. “There’s still plenty of this summer left,” she said, glancing up at him through her lashes, feeling bold. He looked so hopeful that she added, “You should stay.”

“You vould not mind?”

“I insist.”

“Hermione,” he murmured, eyes darting between her eyes and lips, “I vould really like to kiss you.”

“Please,” she whispered, a bit breathlessly. He wrapped his arms around her more tightly and pressed their lips together; Hermione was inclined to think it the best snog she’d ever enjoyed as she thought back to it later, knowing of course that it was simply the culmination of so many emotions that made her feel that way and not caring the slightest.

As he pulled away from her fractionally, Viktor said, “I vill tell Pyotr not to come home tonight.”

Hermione chimed out a laugh. “Billet officially over.”

Ginny appeared suddenly, exiting the tent with a knowing look. “Oh, thank god! Everyone’s looking for you two! Glad I found you first, you lovebugs. Now,” she quizzed Hermione. “Do I need to do any mashing?”

“None at all,” Hermione answered with a red-faced grin.

“Great!” Ginny beamed. “Now get back in here so you can officially bail on this party and start your own. And Krum, if you hurt her, you’ll never want to get on a broom again once I’m done with you!”


End file.
